


Lucha Libre

by gnomeslice



Series: Amerikate [2]
Category: Young Avengers
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 22:58:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnomeslice/pseuds/gnomeslice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the patrol schedule gives the girls a night off, America Chavez already had plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucha Libre

"Hey, Chavez!"

You catch her just as she puts her hand on the door. With a huff she drops the handle and leans against the doorframe, crossing her arms and leveling with you, "Is this the part where you ask me to take Noh-Varr's patrol so you can take him on some cheesy date, Bishop?"

It's not surprising that she would assume that, it is surprising that while her question was mumbled and gruff, you feel like it was meant genuinely. If you asked her to take Noh-Varr's patrol, she would. She's even sort of dressed for it, in her tattered jeans and that star spangled track jacket.

"Oh, no," you take a step closer and conjure up the same confidence you use on the battlefield. "That's not what I was going to ask."

She tilts her head, watching you with a thin patience and a dubious curiosity. You take it as encouragement to continue.

"Well, you have the night off, and I have the night off, and I was wondering if you wanted to spend it together. Like, hang out or something."

She looks at you for a long while. You take a slow breath and let her, because America Chavez wouldn't hear your explanations if you had them. You said your piece and you'll get an answer or another.

"I have plans tonight," America slouches against the door frame even further, thick boots crossing at the ankles, "and I traded Hulkster a patrol to make it work, so I'm not changing them. You can ride along if you want, but I'm not sure how much fun you'll have."

That’s new and contradictory information. She has plans but was ready to take Noh-Varr’s patrol? Had you read those signals wrong? And fun? America Chavez planning fun without beating up aliens or bad guys? You'd very much like to know what she’s up to.

You step forward, reaching across her for the door handle, "So, where are we going?"

\--

America doesn’t tell you.

Instead she scoops you up in her arms and takes off as soon as you’re on the roof. She flies fast and far and when she stops you have no idea where you are. It has to be south because the heat is natural and muggy even in the late hour. The stars are brighter than they ever are around the city. She sets you down on a sturdy metal rooftop.

"Where are we?" you hear a crowd beneath you and there are way more than a few cars parked around the building.

America waves you towards a door nearby, "Not in Kansas."

Instead of trying to beat down a brick wall for more information, you decide a surprise is just as nice. She takes you down a rickety stairway that smells like mildew. Cobwebs in the corners shake with the vibrations of distant music. For a moment you think you're about to walk into some seedy night club, but the cheering sounds too organized. America walks towards a large door and you notice the sign on it is not written in English.

She pauses just before opening it, "No complaining, you're the one that wanted to come with me."

"But you never told me where we were going," you offer for arguments sake. By the look on her face, she doesn't think that's her problem. You fight back a smile, "Okay, are there any other rules?"

This time she really hesitates. You see her fingers tighten around the door handle and it isn't until and announcer starts speaking that she finally grumbles, "No teasing."

She pulls the door open before you can ask anything else.

The crowd is much louder without the door, bright lights flash from the rafters around you, and there in the center of the floor is the answer to all your questions.

"You brought me to professional wrestling match?"

 _"Lucha libre,"_ America rolls her eyes and starts off down the metal walkway. You're quick to follow, while trying to take everything in all at once.

Looking over the railing, you're impressed. The arena below is filled with people, rowdy and chanting as the announcer rattles off with a quick and excited Spanish tongue. The energy is palpable, lights dancing over the center ring, and dramatic music plays up the suspense of the upcoming match.

“Are we in Mexico?”

“Worried about immigration deporting your ass?” she throws the question over her shoulder. “Just bat your pretty blues and I think you’ll be fine, princess.”

“Bat my eyes?” your eyebrows rise higher with each syllable. She knows perfectly well that you could get out of a tricky spot without needing to resort to your looks. You catch up to her and bump your shoulder into hers, “Now who’s teasing?”

She shrugs easily, shoving her hands into her jacket.

It dawns on you that she had meant it—she really expected you to tease her about this place. And that’s odd, because America Chavez doesn’t answer to anyone. She doesn’t cater to anyone. She certainly doesn’t let anyone tease her, yet somehow she thought you might do that. You figured that this wasn’t important to her but you didn’t think it meant that much.

In a corner of the rafters, with an excellent view of the ring and the entrance stage, America sits you down on the edge of the walkway. Her boots swing in the air next to yours and it’s kind of cute the way she kicks her feet like an antsy child. The announcer is introducing one of the fighters, his name flashes across a bright screen and the crowd hollers at his entrance.

America claps a few times, leaning forward against the railing. She doesn’t look impressed with either of the competitors that have entered the stage. Her indifference doesn’t keep you from being curious. You study their outfits, the spandex pants and colorful masks.

A part of you cringes, “I could never fight in a mask like that. It would be torture.”

Her nose scrunches up and you know she agrees. You smile to yourself because you hope this isn’t just a one night thing.

Then you say, “I’m glad you don’t wear a mask.”

And you say it because you mean it—you like being able to see her face. You like seeing her roll her eyes at Loki, and growl at her enemies, and you like how her eyebrows are just as expressive as her fists and you like… well, you like her face.

America gives you this sidelong glance like she doesn’t know what to do with that comment.

Your hands slide against your jeans, sweating. You change the subject, “Is there someone special you’re here to see? A favorite fighter or something?”

Her eyes slip back to the ring and you feel the microscope above you become unfocused.

“None of these lightweights,” she flicks her wrists dismissively at them as the circle each other around the ring. “They’re the opening act.”

For a preamble, these guys sure know how to put on a show. You didn’t expect to enjoy it, because you live in a world of fighting and it doesn’t seem right to want to watch it as entertainment, but these guys are just that—entertainers. Athletes, yes, very compelling athletes. That’s probably your favorite part, watching their flashy showmanship and acrobatic routines mixed into takedowns and assaults.

The man in a silver mask flips clear out of the ring to tackle is opponent and you lean over with a grin, “I like when they jump off the ropes.”

She shakes her head indifferently but there’s a bare hint of a smile at the corner of her lips and you think that’s pretty cool too.

A few minutes later she slips away with the promise to be right back and when she does she isn’t empty handed.

“Are you for real, Chavez?” you eye the bottles she’s holding in their suspicious brown bags.

“I got you one too,” she settles next to you and holds out a bottle.

“You know, sharing doesn’t make either of us any older.”

She takes a drink with her eyes on the match, “Rules are different here. Hurry up and take this, would you? My arms getting tired.”

You take the bottle and are pleased that the beer doesn’t taste completely horrible.

\--

America Chavez is full of surprises. She can be stoic and sullen in a spaceship of superheroes but, during

Mexican wrestling events, she’s something else entirely.

You have never seen her like this.

You've never seen her smile like this.

Grinning, wild and without hesitation, she is so excited. When her favorite luchador, the one in the black mask with decorative flames, takes down his opponent after back flipping off the ropes, America's palms slap against the railing so hard it's miraculous that she hasn't put dents in the metal. Spanish spills form her in loud cheers for Black Mask and sharp jeers to the other side.

She's alive in a way you don't see on the battlefield, this is radiant amusement, not ravishing anger.

"They don't like to stay in the ring much," you notice after another grappling tackle throws a man from the fighting square.

America laughs, deep and warm, "It’s not spring loaded like the rings in the States. They do their big tackles where there's room to break their falls."

"Do they—"

She's too engaged for questions, grabbing your shoulder and squeezing, "Watch this, watch this!"

Black Mask jumps from one rope to another, with an impressively agile skill for a man that muscular, flips in a complete summersault and the sound of bodies hitting the mats are overshadowed by the screaming crowd.

You smile along, and America lifts her bottle in the air as she cheers. Her hand stays on your shoulder, and you don't mind at all.

The next match has twice the men and twice the excitement. America explains it’s a tag team battle.

“It’s funny,” she smiles, leaning close to be heard and pointing to a team in the ring, “because those two hate each other. Weight class rivals, you know?”

“Why are they fighting together then?”

America chuckles, a low and gravely sound you’d like to hear again.

“Because they hate the other two more.”

You've finish your beer before you thought you would and, surprisingly, before America has finished her own drink. She notices you empty it and gives you a lopsided smile, "Good girl."

Warmth spreads over your face as you set your bottle aside, "You need to keep up, Chavez."

Her eyes light up, eyebrows arching incredulity. She pushes her drink into your chest, "Take a sip of this."

The challenge is obvious, so you take the bottle.

"Just a sip," she warns, almost gently, "and don't you dare spit in my bottle."

Her words make you cautious and with good reason. Whatever she’s drinking is so much stronger than beer.

"That's disgusting," you cough, eyes watering.

" _That's_ tequila," America takes her bottle back and a large drink as soon as she can.

"You’re drinking it straight? Are you crazy?"

She shrugs, completely unconcerned, "My body burns this stuff up, beer might as well be water."

"It has to be hell on your liver."

America clicks her tongue and shakes her head sadly, “That’s just what lightweights say when they want to feel better about themselves.”

You kick the bottom of her boot and she laughs.

\--

By the end of the night there are two very large dents in the railing, you’ve had to stop your friend from throwing an empty bottle into the ring twice, and you can’t remember the last time you had this much fun.

America hasn’t calmed down a bit.

“You saw that last move right?” she points to the stage like the wrestlers were demonstrating at this very moment, “the Tilt-a-Whirl Headscissors Takedown?”

“I did see it,” you smile, taking her by the hand to lead her out of the rafters. Something tells you it’s the only way she’ll leave this place in any sort of timely manner.

“Fucker climbed him like a stripper pole.”

Your laughter echoes around the staircase and into the warm night air. She welcomes the change in scenery, taking a deep breath and stepping further out into the roof. Her face is so relaxed, a smile still playing over her lips. This is something you don’t get to see too often, America Chavez without the chip on her shoulder.

“Can you fly us home,” you ask only half seriously, pushing her shoulder lightly to see if she tips, “or should I call Noh-Varr to give us a ride?”

America stands firm, her eyes in the sky, voice low, “Fuck that, I’d rather _crawl_ back.”

Her eyes fall from the sky, glancing at you for a breath of a moment before they close. You wonder what she’s thinking as she shakes her head and bounces on her toes, gathering her wits for the flight home. When

America opens her eyes the stars and excitement of the night are still shining in them.

She extends her arm to you, “Come ‘ere.”

It’s easy, to step a bit closer to her, feel her fingers tickle across your back and curl around you. Her other hand drops, slipping behind your thighs and with a light breath, your feet are in the air. She takes her time, settling your weight in her arms. As casually as possible, you sling an arm across her shoulders.

America takes flight and declares, “Next time we’re fighting bag guys, I’m trying out that Tilt-a-Whirl move.”

That is actually the best idea ever.

“You have to get my attention first so I can watch.”

“I’m supposed to put a pause to ass kicking just to make you laugh?” she rolls her eyes.

You try to be as persuasive as possible, rubbing the space between her shoulder blades, “Come on, Chavez, please?”

She mumbles some grumpy Spanish under her breath and sighs, “Fine, but I’m only shouting once, if you miss out that ain’t my problem, princess.”

“Awesome,” you squeeze her shoulder and hope she knows that it means a lot to you.

The trip back is much slower. America floats towards the largest cluster of lights she can see and you wonder if she's lost her bearings.

"Are you lost?" you asks with a smile.

She dismisses your question in a puff of breath, even as her eyes search the skyline, "I'm not lost, I'm just not... sure."

"We're in Missouri," you point to the telltale archway looming over the nearby city. "That's St. Louis."

"Hm," she spins in the air, confident now, and her hair brushes across your arm and makes you want to touch it. "We need to go east... er."

"Much east _er_ ," you agree with a grin, fingers curling into the material of her jacket.

There's a smile in her eyes when she takes off and a playfulness to her speed. She heads straight for the Gateway Arch, making a figure eight around the legs and then a great loop-d-loop around the very top. You laugh into her shoulder and hold on tight when you’re upside-down. Your stomach tumbles and your arms wrap around her.

You feel weightless and happy. You forget about being a superhero, about saving people and nearly getting killed. Right now you’re just another teenager having some fun with a friend. America's path zigzags across the countryside, stopping twice more above cities just to see if you can recognize it. You’re always right and she’s always more impressed than she lets on.

Finally—much too soon—she lands on a familiar roof and setting you down gently. She steps away from you then. As soon as your feet hit the ground, she gives you space. The smile you had enjoyed seeing on her face is fading away into her eyes. Secret and safe. Your legs wobble and your chest feels heavy.

"Thanks for letting me tag along," you tell her sincerely. "I had a lot of fun."

Her hands disappear into her jacket pockets, "Cool, me too.”

This is the America you’re used to, when her answers are short and to the point. You’re already missing the girl from the arena.

Then she surprises you, her voice carefully indifferent, “And you know, if you ever wanted to hang out again, I could be into that.”

You try to keep your smile from getting too big, “Yeah?”

There’s a smile in her eyes, a promise, “Yeah.”


End file.
